


Love; Watch It Bloom

by and_a_dash_of_Angst



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Courting Rituals, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being a Little Shit, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hair Braiding, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mutual Pining, SO MUCH FLUFF, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Toss A Hug To Your Witcher, except the slow burn was the three decades of their relationship before this fic, i think writing this gave me cavities, kind of?, that is quickly resolved because there aren't that many words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29918631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/and_a_dash_of_Angst/pseuds/and_a_dash_of_Angst
Summary: A short interlude between monster hunts and political turmoil; a bard and his witcher take a moment to rest in a magical meadow, and along the way finally manage to understand all the ways the other has been trying to say "I love you"....Whilst hair, feather, and horn maintenance is a staple in every variety of positive relationship amongst the fae of both the Summer and Winter Courts, many of the Faer Folk, especially amongst the upper ranks of the Courts, use specific rituals within this admittedly broad category to denote distinct sentiments and type of bonds. Some examples include Maiwnsé face paints, which are carefully applied across the upper cheeks, nose, and forehead of someone who the giver sees as a treasured sibling (even, and sometimes especially, if they share no blood), Star-Stone ear cuffs (for more details, see page 147), and certain varieties of braids. Though braiding a companion’s hair, on its own, has no particular connotations, certain styles (for a full list, see Appendix E) and adornments show more specific intentions.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 75
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fiction Challenge #017





	Love; Watch It Bloom

Stumbling across this seemingly-normal meadow was, according to Jaskier, entirely worth the terror and exertion of fleeing for your life from an enraged chort. Geralt couldn’t bring himself to agree, but then again, he hadn’t been the one being chased. He had to remind himself that the bard’s life had never truly been in danger before he worked himself into yet another panic over his friend’s lack of self-preservation instinct, an idea he had been slowly growing accustomed to since the rather (unnecessarily) dramatic reveal last fall. After all, not even the strongest chort on the continent would pose much of a threat to any of the Faer Folk, let alone a favored son of the Summer Crown[1](Crown) such as Jaskier.

After so many years (come to think of it, how long had it been since Posada?) of constant worry and vigilance for anything that could potentially cause his “human” harm, Geralt thought he could be forgiven for taking a while to process the fact that he  _ no longer had to worry, never had, really, _ along with everything else he’d been trying to wrap his head around. It would’ve been easier if Jaskier had revealed he was part elf, or siren, or even incubus, all of which Geralt had been half expecting ever since he noticed Jaskier had yet to show any signs of aging almost 7 years ago. (Yes, it had taken him more than two decades, but in his defense, until he assumed responsibility for Ciri, he’d never had any reason to think about human rates of aging since long before he’d left Kaer Morhen for the first time.)  _ Of course, _ he’d thought with fond exasperation,  _ Jaskier couldn’t possibly go and be extraordinary in a normal way, if such a thing could even be said to exist. _ No, his bard just  _ had _ to be a member of a species that even witchers knew little about (beyond the fact that they were not to be underestimated and, according to most sources, best avoided if at all possible). 

Last fall, he’d known just enough about the Fae and their culture to know that he barely knew anything at all; his instructors had only ever mentioned them in passing and as an example of “creatures you shouldn’t even  _ try _ to fight unless you want to die” (a category which also includes full-blooded dragons and higher vampires), and even all the extra reading he’d done while recovering from being Hieronymus’s favorite lab rat had only had the sparsest details, witcher authors generally preferring to spend their effort on teaching about species that young witchers might actually survive a fight with. He’d noticed that his bard had a great many peculiar habits and mannerisms over the years, and now that he knew what he  _ was _ , he was fairly certain they were fey in origin; knowing well the dangers of asking questions about potentially sensitive topics that he knew absolutely nothing about, Geralt had resolved to continue ignoring them until he could do a bit more research on his own, despite how he was practically bursting with curiosity at the novelty of finding something entirely new to learn. Thus, that winter, he’d dug up every single tome in Kaer Morhen’s limited collection of fae-focused texts, and when those proved to be as lackluster as he’d expected, called on favors with some of Eskel’s fae-adjacent  _ friends[2](friends) _ , and eventually ended up working his way through a stack of books and scrolls nearly as tall as he was and learning far more about the Faer Folk, particularly the Summer Court, and their customs than he’d ever expected. Still, though, he wasn’t sure how accurate any of those sources had been; not only were none of them written within the past century and a half or particularly certain about the specific connotations of most social rituals, there were also several behaviors he’d frequently noticed from Jaskier that those books seemed to think would suggest that- 

Geralt found himself abruptly jolted back to the present when he suddenly noticed that Jaskier’s rambling praise of the clearing had gone quiet. A quick reacquaintance with his surroundings showed that something (Jaskier) had caused every flowering plant in the late-summer meadow to bloom to colorful life like it was early spring. The vivid joy on Jaskier’s face as he flitted about the clearing inspecting his creations forced Geralt to hide a (besotted, though he’d never admit it, even to himself) smile as he crouched down next to a hellebore bush to begin restocking his botanical alchemy supplies. Moments like this, with Geralt relaxing in the rare peace of what was perhaps the least dangerous part of the witcher lifestyle while Jaskier admired the ‘natural beauty’ of a place and absorbed the ‘abundant bardic inspiration’ that was apparently present in such locations, had long been one of his favorite parts of their travels, even if before this year, such occasions had been limited by the seasons and dampered by Geralt’s constant need to be alert for anything that could possibly hurt his companion; now that Jaskier was no longer hiding his abilities and Geralt knew he wasn’t nearly as breakable as he’d thought, these moments happened whenever they found a clearing with the right seeds. (according to Jaskier, he couldn’t, despite appearances, make plants grow out of nothing without spending enormous amounts of energy for the smallest results; he needed the seeds, or roots, or any part of a plant, really, and then he could simply adjust the life and potential that already existed; Geralt didn’t quite understand, but then again, the last significant exposure he’d had to any kind of complex nature magic had been his  _ mother _ .)

Some time later, after Geralt had collected as many petals as he could carry and moved on to grinding up various herbs into more-portable pastes, he felt was once again brought out of his thoughts (though much more gradually, this time) by the sensation of his bard’s eyes fixed on his back and his presence slowly drifting closer, until he could almost feel Jaskier’s warmth against his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. Before he could spend too long wondering what exactly the magnetic fae was up to, he felt his fingers gathering up the witcher’s long hair and gently carding through it, working out the day’s tangles more painlessly than Geralt ever had the patience for himself. With a soft hum, he let himself lean back, relaxing into the familiar comfort of the bard’s skilled hands. Several minutes pass like this, the witcher melting further and further into his bard’s strong arms, until the slightest change in the movement of the fingers in his hair alert him to the fact that Jaskier has finished detangling and begun the process of gathering sections of silky hair and weaving them into intricate braids; this, too, has become familiar, and Geralt allows his mind to start to drift away like it does during meditation. His winter reading had informed him that among the fae of the Summer Court, grooming (and preening, for those fae that had wings) was a particularly valued method of expressing affection and trust between friends, family (Geralt quickly squashed the excitement that flared at the thought of Jaskier possibly considering him worthy of such a title), and even romantic partners, and that refusing an offer for such care was somewhere between a vicious insult and a cruel rejection; over the last decade, he’d largely stopped denying the both of them the pleasure of allowing the bard to care for his hair (Geralt didn’t understand what Jaskier could possibly find pleasing about looking after a battle-hardened mutant like he was a helpless child, but he couldn’t deny that the perplexing man  _ did  _ enjoy it), but after learning that little bit of fey trivia, any last bits of resistance were thrown out the window. He’d already been excessively cruel to Jaskier more than enough for  _ several _ lifetimes, and he did not plan on doing it ever again.

* * *

Geralt can’t be sure how much time has passed in that manner by the time he notices one of Jaskier’s hands leaving his hair and the sweet scent of one of the many flowers surrounding them growing stronger.

“Your hair would look so lovely with a few of these braided in.” Jaskier’s voice is soft, easily audible but not loud enough to cause even the slightest tinge of discomfort to the witcher's overly-sensitive ears, and from his tone Geralt can easily imagine the smile that is surely scrunching his cheeks as he spoke. After a short moment of confusion, Geralt realizes that ~~his~~ \- no, not  _ his _ \- fae must be talking about one of the carefully-picked flowers he had gathered throughout the meadow, probably causing the increased scent by holding it up next to the partially formed braids to aid his imagination. 

The realization summons a memory of the lovely shirt Eskel had embroidered with intricate flowers and vines as a gift back when they were preparing to set out on the path for the first time, and of the disdain and revulsion he’d been faced with when he’d dared wear it into a village for the first time.  _ What use does a monster have for flowers? What a waste of pretty things;  _ the voices of long-dead peasants wash over him like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head, but are utterly forgotten in the next moment as he recalls a passage from one of the more trustworthy books he’d found that winter.

> ...Whilst hair, feather, and horn maintenance is a staple in every variety of positive relationship amongst the fae of both the Summer and Winter Courts, many of the Faer Folk, especially amongst the upper ranks of the Courts, use specific rituals within this admittedly broad category to denote distinct sentiments and type of bonds. Some examples include Maiwnsé face paints, which are carefully applied across the upper cheeks, nose, and forehead of someone who the giver sees as a treasured sibling (even, and sometimes especially, if they share no blood), Star-Stone ear cuffs (for more details, see page 147), and certain varieties of braids. Though braiding a companion’s hair, on its own, has no particular connotations, certain styles (for a full list, see Appendix E) and adornments show more specific intentions. The most widely recognized of these customizations is the practice of weaving flowers, vines, and other plant-based decorations into one’s beloved’s hair as it is braided, which indicates strong romantic love and is a clear sign to any other fae that their beloved is claimed and under their protection; the message is particularly potent when made with flowers created by a fae’s own magic, as implied by the fey beliefs on magic and soul exchange discussed in…

The burning rush of - hope? embarrassment? confusion? - too many emotions to parse out all at once sweeps the chill of his previous memory away with no effort. Feeling something like panic (except he’s a witcher, and witchers have panic beaten out of them long before they have any hope of setting out on the Path) and the need to say  _ something _ , Geralt feels his mouth opening before he has any idea what he’s going to say.

“Witchers aren’t meant to be pretty,” is what he finds himself saying, a half-hearted echo of those long ago villagers. Still, he knows, Jaskier will have heard what he didn’t say, has known him long enough to learn just how vulnerable he truly is to the poisoned words and rumors most of the continent is all too happy to spread. It’s true, even if it isn’t the concern that’s currently making his thoughts churn and his throat tighten, and Jaskier knows it; this isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation, though it has been several years since the last time the bard brought it up.  _ Wait- does that mean? No, it couldn’t, the book must have been less accurate than I thought, there’s no way- _

Distracted as he is, he gets no warning before, suddenly, he has a lap full of warm, soft bard and a far-too-affective pout mere inches from his own face. As he struggles to get his heart back down to something resembling its usual slow rate and prays that his friend had somehow failed to notice the way he’d tensed and gasped at his sudden appearance, he notices that Jaskier was holding up a short stick absolutely covered in small flowers like a cat showing off its trophies to an owner. 

“Yes, I know, people don’t react well to witchers looking  _ soft _ , never mind that we’re at least a day’s journey from the closest human settlement. Most flowers are admittedly far too obvious against your gorgeous hair, but look at these! They’ll blend right in, so anyone who didn’t know about them would have to get  _ very _ close to notice them, and be doing a rather rude amount of staring besides! I know you well enough by now to know when you want something you won’t admit to, don’t try to tell me you don’t.”

Jaskier’s right; the flowers, besides being rather small and delicate looking, are pale white, nearly the exact shade of his hair, apart from the dark pink centers each of them protects. From afar, they’d almost certainly not be visible, and if they were, well, the color is close enough to dried blood that it wouldn’t look particularly out of place on a witcher.

From the moment he hums in hesitant acquiescence, only half paying attention to what’s happening around him as he continues trying to resolve the newly-shaken equation of their relationship in a way that makes  _ sense _ , the radiant joy that lights up his bard’s face ensures he can’t take it back.

By the time Geralt manages to get his thoughts back in coherent working order (not at all aided by the closeness of Jaskier’s steady warmth and enticingly content scent), Jaskier has nearly finished the last of several complicated braids and had tucked  _ dozens _ of blossoms in strategic spots amongst their twists and folds. A soft thought of  _ maybe I can have this _ has been steadily creeping up the witcher’s heart and throat as he sat there, the sweet presence of his friend protecting the dangerous hope from every one of his attempts to shut it out. By the time his bard is tucking the last few strands of snowy hair into place, the hope has invaded his mouth, sitting on the tip of his tongue and waiting to be spoken into life.

“You know,” he murmurs, sliding his hands up from where they’d been resting awkwardly at his sides to bracket Jaskier’s waist and leaning forward to rest his head on the other’s shoulder. “I did some research, this winter. Rather obscure topic; had a hard time finding any decent publications on it.”

“Oh?” The bard’s voice is slightly higher than it usually is, though he doesn’t seem to have realized what exactly Geralt was talking about.

“Mm. Not many witchers know anything about the Faer Folk; even fewer know anything about their culture or customs. Had to outsource a few treatises.” A deep breath to gather his courage; this was the hard part - the sentence from which there was no going back, no plausible deniability to hide behind. “One of ‘em said some interesting things about braiding, flowers, what they mean.”

“ _ Oh. _ ” The sweet dandelion scent of Jaskier’s joy abruptly soured with anxiety, but thankfully it didn’t last long. “You’re… not upset? You know what I’ve been doing and you’re just -  _ perfectly fine _ with it?” At the shock in  ~~ his ~~ \- no,  ~~ the ~~ \-  _ his _ fae’s voice, Geralt can’t help pulling back, just a little, until he can look up and meet his bard’s eyes. No matter how much he avoided eye contact as a general rule, he knew his bard needed the reassurance (not that many people, human or not, would find comfort in his unnatural eyes, but then again, Jaskier had always been unique).

“Why would I -  _ Jask _ \- of course not. If it was anyone else, but- it’s you.”

“Fuck,  _ Geralt _ , you can’t just  _ say  _ that with no warning! Since when are you such a romantic?” Jaskier’s smile is bright enough to light the entirety of Kaer Morhen through the entire winter.

“Romantic?” Geralt has never been much of an actor, but he stubbornly keeps a straight face long enough to see Jaskier’s eyes bulge rather comically and his heart skip a beat, at which point the witcher can no longer contain the shit eating grin that steals across his face. The delighted laughter that echoes across the meadow a moment later makes the effort more than worth it, in his opinion.

“ _ You! _ ” His bard’s chiding tone is rather diminished by his unstoppable giggling, but Geralt ducks his head as if cowed regardless. “Get up here, you,” Jaskier murmurs a moment later, his voice as soft as the hand suddenly gripping one of Geralt’s newly woven braids and using it to tilt his face back up towards the radiant fae straddling his thighs.

“Hm?” Geralt’s teasing grin is quickly covered by Jaskier’s own lips (not that he’s complaining, of course, or would be even if he had the mental capacity to consider anything other than  _ this _ ). He’s no stranger to kissing; he’s over a century old, and in that time he’s had some absolutely fucking  _ fantastic _ kisses, including some so fierce and passionate they made him feel like Eskel had just cast his strongest Igni directly into his veins. Somehow, none of them have ever made him feel this good.

It’s not even a particularly heated kiss, as far as these things go; there’s no desperate hands grasping for something to hold or roaming their lover’s body like they’ll never get to touch it again; their lips move together languidly, lazily, gradual and inevitable as the tides rolling in and out in and in again to the coast. Geralt feels Jaskier’s kiss-swollen lower lip catch momentarily on one of his inhumanly sharp teeth, but before he can even begin to worry about having ruined this  _ already _ , Jaskier is moaning softly into his stubble and rocking down,  _ towards _ him,  _ not _ running away, and-  _ oh. Oh, that’s- _

“Fuck, ‘skier,” he breathes against his flower’s cheek, “mm, ‘s  _ good _ .” Normally, he might be embarrassed by how wrecked he sounds, how he’s panting to catch his breath after only a few kisses and some light petting, but at the moment he feels too damn good to give a damn. The feeling of his bard pressed up against him like he couldn’t bear to be parted by even the tiniest millimeter of space has been steadily feuling the quickly growing warmth in his stomach, and as the bard rolls his hips, grinding his weight down at just the right angle to send the most  _ delightful _ tingles shooting up his spine, Geralt feels that warmth flare and begin to spread through the rest of his body as well, until he is entirely and inescapably submerged in the sensation.

As he drifts in this haze of pleasure, Geralt finds himself pondering that warmth; while it wasn’t altogether unfamiliar, it had always, in the past, been more akin to a raging inferno or a brilliant explosion than this gentle warmth: bright and loud and unignorable, but temporary, the kind of heat that became intolerable after any length of continued exposure. This warmth, the feeling of Jaskier, was not as passionate or demanding; it was the gentle warmth of waking up to a crackling fire and nowhere to be anytime soon, the kind of warmth of the quiet moments when he feels so content he knows he’d live in them forever if he only could.

* * *

* * *

1The Summer Crown is the nonbinary ruler of the summer court, who upon first visiting our realm was outraged to learn that humans did not have a gender neutral equivalent of king/queen and thus decided to make one.

2 Succubi, Incubi, Dryads, Merfolk, and several other similar species of semi-humanoid beings are considered to be something like cousins to the true fae.

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with a lot of fae worldbuilding for this that was completely irrelevant to the plot, so it's not really discussed in the story, but if anyone is interested I'm happy to talk about all my random new OCs and headcanons!


End file.
